


in a fading crown have twined the golden elanor

by lastwingedthing



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Established Relationship, F/M, POV Outsider
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:42:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24613975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lastwingedthing/pseuds/lastwingedthing
Summary: Elrond makes a different choice about his daughter's future.
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel/Arwen Undómiel
Comments: 11
Kudos: 50
Collections: Fandom 5K 2020





	in a fading crown have twined the golden elanor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TriablePack](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TriablePack/gifts).



> One thing that's always struck me about the story of Aragorn and Arwen, more so even than Luthien and Beren's story, is how conscious it is of the shortness of mortal lives, how much is lost in the change from immortal to mortal life. The end of their story is set in stone - all mortals die eventually - but I've always wanted to explore more of the beginning and the middle. And after I saw that you requested Canon Divergence AU, this idea popped straight into my head - a chance for them to have more time together than they did in canon. Thank you for giving me the opportunity to explore this, I hope you enjoy it!

_In spring the hill of Cerin Amroth is crowned in golden flowers, and golden too is the elanor that stars the grass below, and golden the last light of the sun as it departs beyond the mountains in the west. But Arwen Undomiel, daughter of Elrond Half-Elven, was clad in grey and silver when she plighted her troth to a mortal man upon that hill, and chose her doom._

_Long did she linger there with Aragorn Arathorn’s son, fair as an Elven lord as he stood before her clad in the raiment of her people. They spoke but little, and together watched the twilight turn the trees to silver until the bright burning stars mirrored the white niphredil in the grass below. And then at last they came down from the heights hand in hand, singing of ancient days in the years of the trees long past._

_Bright lanterns glowed from the walls of Caras Galadhon to greet them, and below in their light shone Galadriel, Lady of Lothlorien, waiting smiling for her granddaughter at the gates._

_“Hail, Arwen, daughter of my daughter! Hail, Aragorn, who will become my daughter’s son!”_

_And Aragorn and Arwen took heart, that the greatest lady of the Elven people on this side of the sea would not come between them and their love._

_Arwen stepped forward then, and she had no words, but joy was shining from her eyes as she took her grandmother’s hands. And the eyes of the Lady Galadriel were shining too, from all the long years of grief that had parted her from her kin; but there was joy there too, a joy beyond her grief built of hope and defiance of the dark._

_“You have chosen hope, my dear heart, hope and light beyond all wisdom – yet all that is fair that lingers in this world has been saved by such a dream, before.”_

_“Aye,” Arwen said, tears like stars in her eyes. “And I am gladdened that you see it. Yet I fear that my father will not. I have chosen my fate and none can now turn it aside – it is my happiness and the joy of my life alone that he now holds in the palms of his hands, and I fear he will deny it to me.”_

_But there was a light and a radiance shining from the Lady Galadriel’s face, and from amidst the light she smiled._

_“Then we will travel together, the three of us, to speak to your father. Great is his wisdom; it is my thought that it will prove greater than his fear.”_

_And so, indeed, it proved to be._

-excerpt from _The Tale of Aragorn and Arwen_ as recorded in the _Thain’s Book_ of Minas Tirith, during the reign of King Eldarion.

Despite all the warmth and friendly Hobbit chatter filling up the common-room of the Prancing Pony, Frodo felt ill at ease. There were too many Men about, more than he’d ever seen in one place before, and too many curious Hobbits with far too much interest in the histories and families of the strangers from the Shire. Natural enough, but it troubled him.

And then there was the matter of Mr Underhill. Giving himself a false name had seemed simple back when he had discussed it with Gandalf at Bag End – no greater matter than one of Pippin’s silly pranks – but now that the time had come to carry out the plan, Frodo felt awkward and clumsy with every word he said.

He did not know these Hobbits. He did not know what they thought of him, or whether they sensed some lie in him when he spoke of his reasons for a visit to Bree. They seemed a little suspicious, and very curious – but so would any Shire-Hobbit be at the visit of a Breeland stranger! But Frodo couldn’t be sure, and it worried him.

And while Sam’s sturdy solidity was comforting beside him, Pippin was no help at all.

Perhaps a part of the matter was that he’d never been to a place where no one knew him by sight or name before. In the Shire, he was always known at once as a Baggins and a Brandybuck before he even opened his mouth, but here it was quite another story.

But there was nothing for it, and gamely Frodo struggled on with the deception, until two particularly rough looking Men beckoned him over from the shadowy corner where they were sitting.

Frodo didn’t like the look of them, but manners were manners; they had caught him questioning Barliman Butterbur about them, and it wouldn’t be fair for him to refuse to speak to them after that. For all his suspicion, his insides squirmed with shame as soon as he realised what they’d heard. Running from terrible Black Riders was one thing – poor manners quite another!

And Frodo did not think they could really do him harm, not in an inn crowded with Hobbits. No Hobbit would stand back and let even his worst enemy be molested by Men.

But up close the Men were as rough and travel stained as they seemed from afar, and one kept the hood of his cloak pulled low enough to shade his forehead and eyes completely from view even as he spoke to Frodo. Below it, his face was fine and delicately made, but in sore need of a bath. And the other was smiling as he sucked his pipe, a dark humorous smile Frodo did not like.

“Mr Underhill, is it?”

Frodo lifted his chin. “What is it to you?”

The truth was stranger than he could have dreamed. But he did not discover the whole of it until after his foolish capers in the parlour with the Ring, and after the two strangers came to their private rooms to upbraid him; after Barliman gave him the letter that he should have received many months before.

Foul was fair and fair was foul… Frodo had already come to doubt his first impressions of Strider and Pacer as soon as he heard a little more of their speech, but it was hard to trust to his instincts when it came to Men. Particularly when Pacer would not raise the hood of his cloak even in private conversation in a private room.

But then he read Gandalf’s letter – _you may meet friends of mine on the road –_ and Pacer lifted the hood of his cloak at last. The reason for his secrecy abruptly became clear.

“Bless me, you’re an Elf!” Sam burst out, eyes alight with the same wonder he’d shown in Woodhall in the Shire, the night they supped with Gildor’s folk. He’d been suspicious enough of Strider, but an Elf was enough to allay that, it seemed.

Pacer smiled. “I am Aros of Rivendell, kin to Elrond Halfelven who is the Lord of that land; long have my people been friends of the Rangers of the North. I have travelled side by side with Strider for many years.”

“And Strider has been more grateful than words can say for the company,” Strider said softly. “On this journey perhaps more than ever.”

Pacer – Aros – nodded slowly. “Our aid is yours on this quest, Frodo Baggins, for as long as you desire.”

And Frodo’s heart leapt in his chest in gratitude and relief.

The Road, Sam quickly discovered, was no place for a respectable Hobbit.

In his years looking after Mr Bilbo and then Mr Frodo, Sam had come to appreciate many parts of the life of a gentlehobbit – a daily hot bath with plenty of soap, clean fresh clothes after a hard day’s work, a comfortable seat by the fire in the evenings with a good book and a pipe to brood over, herbs and sauces to liven up plain hearty Hobbitish fare. The Gaffer might grumble at times that he was taking on airs above his station, reading books about Elvish matters and all, but the Baggins of Bag End were generous and Sam could never see the harm in any of those things – came to miss them, when he had to do without.

But the Road offered none of those little comforts. No baths, no clean clothes, no books, a hard cold patch of earth for seat and bed both. And while Sam did his best with his travelling pans and the few herbs he could gather as they travelled, he sorely missed a well-stocked pantry and a proper stove for cooking. He could make fresh bread in a pan in the ashes of their fire, while the flour lasted, but if he’d only had the lovely deep oven from Bag End…!

And yet perhaps Sam wasn’t as respectable as he seemed. Because despite the cold and the mud and the midges – despite the constant fear of the Black Riders – Sam couldn’t help but enjoy himself.

He missed the Shire, deeply. But there was always something new to see each day – a ruined farmhouse or wall, perhaps, or the remains of an old road; something to wonder and dream over, imagining which of the people from Mr Bilbo’s old stories might have lived there long ago. Or new herbs that Pacer showed him how to gather on their way, or a lovely view of distant mountains cloaked in changing autumn leaves that Mr Bilbo might have written a poem about.

Sam could understand where the poetry came from when he saw a view like that.

Strider was usually very serious when they travelled; perhaps as their leader and guide he took the responsibility more to heart. But Pacer could be coaxed to sing, sometimes, or tell stories about ancient days when the old Kings had roamed this land. Even something as simple as an old bit of wall would be enough to bring out a story. And he knew a great deal about herblore – Strider was the healer of the two, it seemed, but Pacer knew dyecraft and cookery, and almost as much about gardening as Sam’s old Gaffer. Skills that were more in Sam’s line of business, as it were. It was a pleasure to learn more of what the Elves knew of those matters.

And after they left Weathertop, and Sam’s poor master was hurt, Sam didn’t think they could have made it without Pacer’s help. Sam was choked up with fear for Mr Frodo, and Strider too was stern and cold with his troubles, though he was very gentle with Mr Frodo’s hurt shoulder. But even on the worst trails with Black Riders behind them, Pacer still sang, silly cheerful Elven songs that somehow put spirit in even weary hungry Hobbits. Even Mr Frodo smiled sometimes when Pacer sang, though his poor face was white and drawn with pain. They all heard him crying out in his sleep sometimes, dreadful low sobs and moans that hurt the heart to hear, and day by day his face grew greyer with pain and lack of sleep and something worse, too, that Sam did not dare think on for long. Only Pacer could cheer him.

And then they came to the Fords of Bruinen, and the terrible Black Riders there – nine of them, more than they had faced even at Weathertop – and the golden Elf-Lord they met there gave his horse to Frodo and set him running, but it was dark-haired Pacer who sang to the river and called on its lord to send a rising flood down from the mountains to wash the dreadful riders away.

Only later in Rivendell did Sam realise what he had seen – magic, true magic, just like in the stories! Better even than Gandalf’s fireworks. And Sam was gladder than ever that Pacer had joined them on their road.

Frodo’s first hours in Rivendell made him feel as if he had awoken from a long cold nightmare into the cheery brightness of a summer’s morning, all blue skies and green leaves and birds singing sweetly in the trees. The Elven Halls were more beautiful and yet kinder than he had ever dreamed, in all those years sitting in Bag End listening to Bilbo’s tales and wondering when he, too, might travel the Road to see marvels.

The only grief of the first evening’s feasting was that of Frodo’s friends, neither Strider nor Pacer joined them at the table. Frodo wondered at that, but only a little. For at least he could meet his host at last, the Lord Elrond who had healed him and saved his life. Fair as all the Elves, he was; wise and stern and kind together. None of Bilbo's stories really did him justice.

At Elrond's right hand at the great table sat a great lady of the Elves: his daughter, the Lady Arwen Undomiel, who it was said had very recently returned from long travels. Very fair, she was – as fair as a woman from an ancient tale – but there was a sadness in her face, at times, as she looked at her father; and a deeper sadness in his, as he looked at her. And there was something familiar about her face, too, as if Frodo had met her once in a dream, or a distant memory in the Shire – but it could not be so, he thought. A great lady of the Elven people would not leave her home lightly. Certainly not to travel to the homely land of the Hobbits, or even through it. He set those strange thoughts aside.

Later in the Hall of Fire he forgot them entirely, when he met one who he had long been parted from: his dear Bilbo, older and frailer now, but at the heart and spirit of him unchanged. To see Bilbo again was a joy greater even than Rivendell.

But Bilbo was not alone in the halls: sitting by him as if poised to aid him at need was a slim young girl who Frodo did not think he had seen at the feast. An Elven lass, Frodo thought, akin perhaps to the Lord Elrond and his daughter; she was much like the Lady Arwen in feature, though merrier, and perhaps less fair. She seemed in face and stature like a young Hobbit lass in her early tweens, yet her eyes seemed both younger and older than any Hobbit child Frodo had ever seen.

With a small shock Frodo realised she was the first youth he had seen in these halls: for all the beauty and peace of Rivendell, it was not a place of the young. There were no other children.

Even here, the Elves were truly fading from the world. The knowledge smote at Frodo’s heart, not least of all at the loneliness of this sweet girl, who must know herself to be the very last. Children, more than any others, were not meant to be alone; Frodo doubted that even Elves and Hobbits differed in this matter.

“This is the Lady Auriel, of the kindred of Lord Elrond,” Bilbo told him, interrupting Frodo’s thoughts. “Auriel, this is my dear nephew and heir, Frodo Baggins.”

Auriel smiled like a new day dawning. “I know. I helped the Lord Elrond tend you while you slept. But it is good to see you awake, and walking!”

Frodo bowed to her low. “I would not be, without you. For the skill and care of the Lord Elrond and his kin, I have no words enough for thanks.”

Her smile softened, and she bowed as well. “There is no need. I did little; I am still only learning from Grandfather, he has so much more to teach me. You should thank him, before me.” Then as Frodo bowed again she and Bilbo turned in the same moment, as someone else approached them.

Frodo thought him an Elf-lord for a moment: he was certainly dressed as one, in kingly garments of grey and silver as were the custom in Rivendell.

But then Auriel ran to him, crying, “Father!” And in his face Frodo recognised his friend Strider.

It was a shock like an unexpected shaft of light in the face, blinding and yet revealing much; at once Frodo recalled the sadness on the faces of the Lord Elrond and the Lady Arwen at the feast that evening. Frodo had always known that the Lord of Rivendell was of the Half-Elven; yet it seemed strange indeed that even in these late days of the world such a marriage could come to be.

Great must be the esteem of Elrond for the Rangers, if he had allowed even the wisest of them to wed his daughter – even if it had gained him the companionship of the Lady Auriel, whose company must surely be some consolation. 

Soon enough Frodo’s happy speech with Bilbo distracted him, as Auriel and Strider departed together to seek her mother. But some disquiet lingered in him, a deep sense of sadness and loss. Grief had come to the Lord Elrond before many times – Frodo knew that from all the tales – yet those seemed tales only, distant and remote echoes from the Eldar Days, and this grief was yet new and fresh.

And then, too, there was Pacer – he had named himself of Elrond’s kindred, yet in all their time in Rivendell there was no sign of Pacer. Frodo did not dare ask either Strider or Elrond too closely what had happened to their friend from the road; he feared there was a grief there, one connected perhaps with the marriage between Pacer’s kinswoman and a mortal Man, and he did not wish to remind any of them of old hurts.

But at last their departure came, a cold dawn. And long after the Lady Arwen returned to her father’s hall and Auriel farewelled her father perhaps for the last time with small tears like stars in the corners of her eyes, after the slow march of the Fellowship out of the deep ravine of Rivendell – Pacer met them at the top of the ridge, with a pack on his back and a long knife at his waist.

All the company greeted him aloud, some with wariness and some with delight, save Strider. Strider only gripped his arm for a moment and met his eyes with a long wordless gaze.

“My road yet runs beside yours,” Pacer said to him, quietly. “My lord gave his leave, yet the choice is not entirely his. I told him I would go, and he did not gainsay me.”

Strider bowed his head. “So be it. I ought to grieve, perhaps; but I cannot. I think we shall be grateful for your company on the road, before the end!”

“As I have always been, for yours,” Aros answered, smiling. “And I do not think we are quite at our end.”

“Perhaps not,” Strider said. But then he turned his face away, gazing South.

Two Elves, two Men, a Dwarf, a Wizard and four Halflings. It did not seem wisdom to Boromir, to set out on such a grave mission with so few warriors – not least when they had come from the refuge of Imladris, filled as it was with great Elf-lords with many deeds behind them. A dozen of such warriors would have been a great aid on the road and in Gondor, far better than the childlike Halflings who were not at all suited for the rigours of the road ahead. It grieved Boromir to think of what might happen when such small untrained folk met with battle, as was inevitable on this road. He did not think it was wise of Elrond and Mithrandir to have bent to their will on this matter, but the choice had not been his.

As for the Elves that had joined them, both Aros and Legolas seemed skilled enough, but by all accounts they were young for their race, and Boromir had heard nothing of their deeds. Nevertheless, he swore to himself, he would not falter on the road ahead, even if the others fell and he was left to defend the Hobbits alone. And he held to that vow even to the snows of Caradhas, and beyond, to the Black Pit.

That road was more folly, he thought, when it was suggested and then again and again on the road towards it. Mithrandir might have passed through it unscathed, or so he claimed, but one could pass more easily than ten, particularly when that one was a wizard.

Legolas too seemed wary, but Aros spoke little of his thought, at first. Only when they reached the great gates that Mithrandir called to light with his words did the Elf speak, and that was a single word in the Elven tongue. _Friend_.

And the doors opened.

As almost one being, the Fellowship turned to stare at him. Mithrandir alone smiled, as if he was not surprised.

“I passed through Khazad-dum many times in youth, when it was a great city still, and the best road by which to cross these mountains,” Aros said softly. “My mother’s kin are of Lorien, and of this land of Eregion before, and in my childhood their friendship with Durin’s people was still strong. The dwarves shared some of their secrets with their friends in those days. But I have never seen the city since its ruin. I hoped to keep its wonder alive and unstained in my memory, but I see now it is not to be. Alas for the shining city! Alas for the brightness of its lights beneath the pillars of the mountains!”

Gimli bowed his head, but Boromir caught a glimpse of the light in his eyes before his head dipped low.

“A great wonder, if what you say is true!” the dwarf said, softly enough, but moved by great passion. “If you are willing, I would hear more of your tales as we walk. Khazad-dum is alive in the songs and crafts of my people, but our memories do not endure as do those of the Elves. To hear from one who walked those halls in their glory would be a gift beyond price!”

“No doubt; but perhaps such tales are best saved for a more peaceful hour,” Mithrandir broke in, gazing warily at the setting sun. “Sam, I am sorry, but the time has come.”

Boromir said nothing as Sam bid the poor pony farewell. The little Hobbit was weeping aloud: too tender-hearted for this journey, as Boromir had thought all along. He would never see this road to its end, and it grieved Boromir to see that soft heart meet with such trials. _Send him back_ , he thought again. _Send all of them back, and keep this quest for stout-hearted Men, who could better bear this burden. It is not right to let small folk suffer, when we who are stronger stand ready to protect them._

But there was no turning back for any but their beast. The farewells were said at last, and Mithrandir spoke words over the pony before it trotted back west towards the sunset.

And then they went forward into the dark, and the doors closed behind them.

“I’m not sure I like it, Pip,” Merry said uneasily, in a low voice. His friend stared.

“What on earth isn’t there to like? The trees – it’s like a garden here, only it’s a city too – and all the Elves and their songs – and the Lady like a song herself – ”

Pippin was almost stammering in his eagerness, pink-cheeked and looking suddenly very young. With a twist of his heart Merry was reminded that his friend wasn’t even of age yet, rightly speaking. Of course that hadn’t ever mattered on the road, Pippin was as brave and hardy as any of them, and mostly Merry didn’t think about his age. But – _what would old Uncle Paladin say, if he knew the trouble we’d been bringing Pip into? Or Aunt Eglantine? It was too much for old Gandalf, even, and we’re not at the end of the road yet._ It made a chill sink through Merry, right down to the hairs on his toes.

“Oh yes,” Merry said, nodding firmly to drive away those thoughts. “All of that it true, of course. Only – it’s not really for us, is it? We’ll stay here for a while, in all this loveliness, but then we’ll have to leave. And what then? Back to the dangerous road again, and everything drab and ordinary, if it isn’t dreadful? I almost feel as if it will be worse to leave this place than if we’d never come here at all.”

“Well, I don’t,” Pip said stoutly. “Even if it will be a wrench to leave, I’d rather know. I’d rather have seen this place even if I regret it all my life! And I think you’re just the same, deep down. I don’t believe you really mean it.”

Merry shrugged. “Well, perhaps. We’re here now, anyway, no matter what I say. But I still don’t think I like it.”

Pip snorted. “So you won’t be coming with me to that garden of fountains near the west gate, then? The one we saw the other night – you said you wanted to see it better by daylight, but I suppose you didn’t really mean it, since this land _isn’t meant for the likes of us_ and all.”

Merry rolled his eyes in a way that would have made his mother rap his knuckles with her spoon, if she’d been there to see. “I didn’t say _that_. Lead on, Pip!”

Pip grinned. “Maybe we’ll find Pacer and Strider on our way. They’d like to see the garden, don’t you think?”

Merry frowned. “Yes – but do you remember when we saw them last, Pip? I can’t seem to. I’d swear it hasn’t been long, but we haven’t seen them at all today, nor yesterday. Haven’t we?”

Pippin wrinkled up his forehead, thinking. “Strider was at dinner with us last night, wasn’t he? We had those tart little pink fruits, and that soft white bread – what wouldn’t Aunt Esme do to get the recipe for _that_ , do you think?”

“That wasn’t last night, surely,” said Merry, thinking even harder. “That was days ago, wasn’t it? And Pacer wasn’t there at all. You know, Pip, I don’t think we’ve seen him at all since we left the Lady, the very first night of all! He went to speak to her afterwards, remember? And then…”

But Pippin had lost his patience. He tugged at Merry’s hand, pulling him up off the smooth green lawn towards the path to the west gate, which would lead them to the lovely garden they’d seen.

And Merry followed. He would figure out the mystery of his companions’ location later, he told himself.

Legolas could see the golden roofs of Edoras for many miles before they reached the city. The great hall of Meduseld seemed to him painfully poignant, this little scrap of wood and thatch huddled below the might of the mountains; only a handful of years old, and it would last but a handful more before the malice or forgetfulness of Men sent it blowing away again on a cold wind from the hills.

Short lives these Men had, spent in the shadow of indifferent mountains that would endure longer than any of their kingdoms; yet they had gilded their halls all the same, a little tattered wisp of beauty as if to defy the smallness of their lives.

They were braver than their strength, were Men. Until he had joined the Fellowship that bravery was all the beauty he had known of them. But now he knew Aragorn Arathorn’s son, and even doomed Boromir whose strength had proven greater than his weakness at the end, and knew they were more than merely brave.

But of these people of the horse, Legolas knew little. His people did not often have dealings with their kinsmen in the North – much less than with the Lakemen of Esgaroth, who were often trustworthy, but not always.

Eomer and his men had seemed fair in their judgements too, before the borders of Fangorn, but Legolas could not help but doubt. He did not fear that these men might turn against them – he had enough faith in Aragorn and Aros, Gandalf and stout-hearted Gimli, and in himself, against any number of lesser Men. Rather he feared only how such treachery would be as another blow to his friends.

And at first Theoden their king seemed only to confirm such fears. No longer even brave, wizened and pale, and bent to poison by a mere servant of Saruman – this, then, was the strength of Men?

Yet with Gandalf’s aid this weak bent king freed himself.

Legolas watched as the king’s laughing joy spread even to the servants and loyal men of his household; relieved, it seemed, to be released from ignoble service to Saruman’s mouthpiece.

They would ride west, they would meet Saruman’s treacherous strike, and maybe even now turn it aside. For these Men, it seemed, even a true and noble death in battle would be reward enough. Was it a surprise, that they held their own lives so cheap? They were no more than leaves on a wind from the trees of Fangorn.

Yet something tugged at Legolas’s heart regardless, as they made ready to ride; even if they turned back Saruman’s strike, even if they lived to ride in the keeping of their oaths to Gondor, even if Frodo’s quest succeeded in the end – what would these Men have to look forward to? A handful of bright years, then bitter age, then the Night.

Yet they sang, all the same, in the brightness of the morning.

Only one did not sing. As they prepared to depart the Lady Eowyn came out to farewell them, standing cool and tall and pale before the doors of her uncle’s halls. Her armour caught the sun with a cold light. 

The king’s household took their places, mounting to join the great host assembled in the plain below the city. Aragorn and Gandalf went first of all at the side of the king.

But Aros came late, last of all, and as he passed her the Lady Eowyn spoke in a low tone that only a Elf could hear. “So even you may ride to glory and great deeds beside a noble lord! Yet I am left behind, a doorwarden only.”

Aros stopped and turned to face her, a sudden fey look in his eyes. The hood of the cloak he always wore slipped back, until a few dark strands of hair flew free.

“Aye, even I will ride. Yet you of all people would know what pains and years I spent to earn this fate for myself. Would you begrudge me this?”

Legolas had never seen the two speak together, save a single greeting only. And now Aros spoke of matters Legolas did not understand, yet to this lady of Men they seemed to be clear. There were matters beyond this ride to the Westfold, it seemed, yet to Legolas all was dark. 

At last the lady bent her head. “I would not. You are fair, and brave, and if I may not have what I desire it eases me to see another gain it. Yet will you not help me?”

“I may not,” Aros answered. “Not yet. But I will speak for you. And I fear that there may be chances yet for you to find what you seek.”

Now the Lady Eowyn’s eyes were blazing. “Such is my hope! All that I might hope for in these days. And I thank you for it.”

Aros shook his head. “Yet my hope is that such days and deeds may not come to pass, and I am sorry that I see little ahead of us but such chances.”

“But that is not your choice nor your doing,” the Lady Eowyn said at last. “Go with my thanks and my blessing, all the same. May you find all the deeds and glory you seek!”

And Aros bowed to her in farewell.

He came swiftly away down the slope to rejoin them, but he checked as he saw Legolas waiting, and a troubled look crossed his face, as if he had hoped none had heard his speech with the Lady Eowyn.

And in that moment Legolas finally saw what he had been blind to all these months – he, a lord of the Woodland Elves who had seen more centuries than had this kingdom – yet this child of Men had seen the truth more clearly than he.

“My lady,” he said, the words escaping him without volition, near rooted to the ground in shock. “How could this be? Is this wisdom?”

At that the Lady Arwen – disguised by the magic of her cloak, but the Lady Arwen regardless – laughed aloud.

“Nay! I left behind wisdom many years ago, when I pledged myself to a mortal Man, and have not found it since. I have not been wise – I have been reckless, and foolish, a greedy child stealing every moment that I may have with the one I love.”

Legolas shook his head back and forth slowly, dismayed. They rode now to war, a desperate gamble with chance and fate, and all their paths were dark. To know that a gentle lady of such high lineage rode down those paths with them… he felt fear, suddenly, and deep grief, perhaps as deep as mortals knew it.

Slowly the laughter faded from Lady Arwen’s face.

“When I was as you are now, I was like a child who lives in a court of fountains, surrounded by more water than I could ever need or use. But I chose to turn away. And now my life is like hers, waiting before the doors of Meduseld – like Aragorn, my love’s – it is as if I have no more water than could fill the cup of my hands. And every day it runs away from me. Do you begrudge me, that I will drain everything I have left in this cup to the dregs, be they bitter or sweet?”

A cloud passed, high overhead. A shadow touched them, and withdrew.

“I do not know,” he said at last. “I do not understand this matter. I do not understand how you could make such a choice.”

“I fear you will come to know something of bitter choices, before the end,” the Lady Arwen said softly. Her line was known for their foresight; a chill ran down Legolas’s spine.

“So said your grandmother,” Legolas said at last, lightly. “I have chosen my road.”

“As have I,” Lady Arwen replied.

At last Legolas bowed his head in acceptance. “So be it, then. Aros, we are tardy; we must ride.”

And Aros ran beside him to where Gimli still waited with the horses – naught more than their companion of the road, again. He did his best to cast the other from his mind.

Gimli came out of the dark into more darkness. It was night – a cool fresh wind was on his face to blow away the dank moulds of the Paths of the Dead – yet in his mind and heart he was still stumbling blindly through deep passages in the rock. Fear beat at him, all around him, and he could smell grave-mould still. Taste ancient dust on his tongue.

Yet his feet moved all the same. Forward, forward… the obedient body that had crossed Rohan on foot was willing long after the heart and spirit failed. And when his feet faltered Legolas was there, to lift him to Arod’s back again that the patient beast might take on this burden that Gimli struggled to bear.

The warmth of Legolas’s back and of the horse beneath him should have been a comfort, but was not.

The Dead were with them. To the Stone of Erech they rode, with dead things all about them. Then Aros unfurled Aragorn’s great standard that he had carried since the northern Rangers met them at Dunharrow, and Aragorn cried aloud to the Dead Men, that the time had come to keep their oaths.

A kingly voice, a kingly moment… great would be the songs sung of this journey, if Frodo’s quest succeeded. But the black veil did not lift from Gimli’s sight, and he felt nothing but fear.

Further south they rode, black day following night unchanging, and then again a sunless morning. Well did the darkness suit Gimli’s mood; and of the living among their company, few spoke aloud save at need. Even the Elves were silent.

Yet at last they came to a low rise visible even in the dark haze, and crossing it, saw stretching below them a vast empty shifting space that stretched halfway to the horizon – a lake, it seemed at first, but then Gimli realised it was the river, broadening before it met the sea. Here Anduin was Great indeed.

There was a wild fresh smell on the breeze, and above them strange birds crying in mournful tones. And suddenly Gimli’s mood lifted, a little, and he could feel more than merely his fear – mainly shame at his own cowardice, yet even that was better than the terror that had gripped him since the Paths of the Dead.

But Legolas froze before him, and then stopped their horse to stare into the gloom before them.

“The Sea! The Sea! Ai, it calls me! Can you not hear it?” Gimli could feel him trembling. “I must follow, it calls me!”

But Aros came up beside them, and Aragorn with him, and their faces were stern.

“You may not,” Aros said softly, but his words were clear and distinct in the cold air. “Not yet.”

Legolas shook his head fast, as if he was a horse shaking loose a fly. “Nay, I cannot. I will not forswear you. But that call! Do you not feel it?”

Aros said nothing, his face turned away from them, towards the West.

“No,” he said at last, in a flat voice like a stone. “My forefathers were beloved of Ulmo, the Lord of Waters, and I hear his call still, but it is not for me. I chose my road long ago, and now this one is barred to me. You will follow the sea-roads to the West one day, but soon I will travel a shorter road. Beyond the seas, beyond the West, beyond the stars, there is a doorway into Night, and not even the Valar know what lies beyond it. But that way I must travel. I have turned away from the Sea.”

There was a long silence. Only the crying of the gulls above them broke it. But then Aragorn came forward, and touched Aros’ hand.

“It is not yet too late,” he said at last; very softly, but his voice seemed to echo in the gloom. Great grief and even fear were on his face, but he had mastered them.

“Nay!” Aros replied at once, with a sudden swift smiling lighting up his face. “I have chosen my road freely, and I will not now turn aside. I have chosen all its gifts and its fleeting glory. And I am content.”

He turned away, with Aragorn beside him still.

But Gimli sat at Legolas’s back like a stone, as his friend stared west towards the Sea.

“Happy are those of the kindred of the High-Elves, who may find all who they have ever loved in the West,” Legolas said at last, and his voice was low. “Does he think the Half-Elven alone know the grief of bitter partings? For my kind may choose the Sea, yet they may also choose to reject it; even in death, where the High-Elves see only a swift road running West, my people may turn aside so their spirits can linger in the lands they loved in life. Never will those who make that choice come to the Halls of Mandos. And at last they fade to an echo amongst blowing leaves and water falling over stone. Many are the spirits of my fathers bound in torment to the rocks and tortured trees of Dol Guldur, which was once the fair city of Amon Lanc! And the voice of my mother yet sings in the stream that flows through my father’s halls, that she helped build for him long ages since. My father will not leave her even in death. If I sail I am sundered from them forever, and from all the spirits of my kin who remain in the forests they loved.”

The gulls above them were calling loudly, still. Gimli said nothing.

“Yet if I sail, are there not those I would wish to see again?” Legolas went on, as if in answer to the words Gimli had not spoken. “There are many of my kin who have sailed. My sister none the least of them. And would I not rejoice to speak to my kin of ancient days who dwelled in Menegroth, in Thingol’s halls; or who were parted from us before the sun and yet dwell in Alqualonde? Fair is that realm, and its beauty fades not. And I fear that now I have heard the gulls’ cry the sweetness of these lands will lose their savour for me.”

Still Gimli was silent. And at last Legolas laughed – light and merry as if they had returned to the bright glades of Lothlorien, it seemed, yet Gimli had learned enough of his friend to know the griefs an Elf could hide behind such laughter.

“What say you, my friend? How should I choose?”

“I know not,” Gimli said at last, and there was no humour in his voice. He was a Dwarf, and spoke as he felt. “I cannot advise you. My people do not choose: we are chosen. I may not speak to you of our fate. Yet we, too, know something of bitter partings.”

Then Legolas turned in the saddle even as they rode, to look Gimli squarely in the face. “That I know, my friend; but I thank you for the reminder all the same. Bitter it will be to part from you, too; yet part we must, in time!”

“Aye,” Gimli said; but he looked ahead to the Road. “This is not the time for such talk. Look! Aragorn and Aros have near left us behind. You had better make our poor beast run.”

Then Legolas goaded Arod on as he was bid, and they spoke no more of the living or the dead.

For a long time Eowyn dreamt she was drowning, dreamt dark water choking her, shadows rushing down her throat. But then a light blazed up, pale and distant but very clear, to drive the shadows away; and true sleep took her at last, restful and peaceful.

When she woke she was lying on a soft bed of white linen in the Houses of Healing of Mundburg, in Minas Tirith, the city she had wished to make a sacrifice of herself to save. She was alive; her shield-arm had shattered and still pained her; soon she learned that her beloved uncle was dead, and Eomer her brother was King of the Mark.

But he had left her. They had all left her – the Riders of the Mark, and Aragorn who would be king, and the Elves and Dwarf who had already earned great deeds in her own lands. Only faithful Merry was with her still, and he too had been sore wounded and rested still within the Halls.

They told her that her deeds had been glorious – that she had slain the Witch-King, who could be killed by no man’s hand – and that even now there were songs of the deeds of the Pelennor Fields sung in the lower streets of the city. Their king had revealed himself, and there was hope in the streets and houses of the White City, where little hope had been seen for many long years.

Yet Eowyn did not feel it.

There was one other she spoke to at times in the Houses, and that was Faramir son of the Stewards of Gondor. His father had slain himself in fear and shame, and his brother too had fallen far from home; and the duties of his House had ended, for the King had returned. He had more cause to despair than Eowyn herself, yet his heart seemed lighter than hers. Though she could not understand it, she found herself drawn to him despite herself. At times when they walked together in the gardens she could almost remember hope, and feel it, though their chances were slim indeed. But then the darkness would rise in her again, and even his fair face grow dim.

And then one day in the gardens Eowyn saw a tall dark-haired figure standing on a balcony at the end of the gardens, looking into the gulf of still air between the city and the plains below. Eowyn, thinking she saw her friend Faramir, moved quickly towards him – only to pause in sudden doubt a moment later. It was not Faramir; the stranger was a woman.

She was of a height with him, and something of her posture and stance recalled him to Eowyn; yet still she blushed to have made such a mistake, even at a distance.

Then the woman turned to face Eowyn, smiling, and Eowyn saw she was in fact no woman – she was an Elf-Lady. They said in the city that the king had brought his bride with him, and she was an Elven princess from the morning of the world.

But as she looked, Eowyn knew her, as she had known her in Edoras, though her face had changed beyond recognition – knew her as the Elven companion of Aragorn on his road, who had run with him through the length of Rohan, and fought beside him at Helm’s Deep, and even crossed with him through the Paths of the Dead.

“Aros,” she said steadily, meeting her eyes. “I did not think to see you here, in such garb. Have you, too, been left behind at last? After all your deeds?”

But Aros – Arwen – merely smiled with a small twist of her mouth. “I chose to stay,” she said; there was a music in her voice, as in all Elven voices, but it was fading. Already she was growing further from the powers of the Eldar. “Mine is the darker, longer road; for if my husband fails, I will lead our people as long as I can, and protect them from the Shadow as long as my strength endures. Mayhap we can hide ourselves for a time in the secret places of the White Mountains, that something of the light may be kept in this world a little longer.”

Eowyn smiled then, too, but her smile was cold. “You have chosen the hard deeds, without glory. None shall sing of your end if it comes to that. Such is a woman’s lot, is it not?”

Arwen met her eyes then, and her gaze was still keen and searching; at last Eowyn could bear it no longer, and her eyes fell.

“Aye,” Arwen said at last. “There is truth in what you say. To us it has been given to wait, and weave in silence, and stir ourselves only in the utmost need – most likely merely to fall in fear alone. That was the destiny met out to both of us, noble ladies of kingly lineage that we are. Yet you and I have chosen a different road, despite that. Our choices have proved stronger than our fate.”

Then Eowyn felt her heart lift, despite herself.

“I envy you,” she said abruptly, as her cheeks flamed red. “You are long since wed, a woman’s fate, bound to a man who might command you if he chose. But you still ride and fight beside him. He has not caged you. I fear that even one who loves me might force me to such a cage.”

Then the Lady Arwen’s smile softened. “Peace and safety are not always a cage. There is valour and much hard labour in the building and the keeping of a haven, to make it a place of rest and safety for all at need. Such has been my father’s work all the years of my life, and though I chose in the end another path for myself, I would also have been content with such work. But even so, it is right that you come to such a life only if you should choose it. If I am Queen here, as I hope to be, then I will see to it that the White Lady of Rohan may always have a home here, where all her choices may be made freely.”

Then tears filled Eowyn’s eyes despite herself, though her heart lifted, and for a moment the black cloud thinned that she might see the light of a fine fair morning again.

“Then I thank you, lady,” Eowyn said. “My sword and all the works of my hands are yours. And you shall be my Queen for all the days of my life that remain.”

“They shall be long, I think,” Arwen said; she looked towards the West and smiled. “Always my hope has been greater than my fear, and this time too I think it is not unfounded. I shall be Queen, and you shall find hope and light at last in Gondor – even love, perhaps, from one who is a friend to you and not a goaler. And soon my husband shall return to rule this land in wisdom and in joy.”

Eowyn did not know if she believed her, but she hoped – the first time she had felt hope in many dark months.

 _Perhaps_ , she thought. _Perhaps the light is stronger after all_.

So they waited together, in hope of a brighter dawn.

_Of the Twilight Lady of Gondor, the Elven-born Queen Arwen Undomiel of the House of Elrond, much is written in the records and annals of the great libraries of Minas Tirith; but much too is remembered in the stories and songs of the common people, who though their lives may grow short still love the memory of their first King and Queen. For oft even after they were crowned Elessar and his lady would take the guise of common folk – even of a common Man, it is said of the Queen, who learnt much of the arts of weaving disguises in her years in Lothlorien with the Lady Galadriel – and wander the kingdom as Rangers, seeing clearly the small hurts and troubles of their people so that they might better heal them._

_Great works did the Queen undertake, too, for the common folk: for the repair of bridges and roads and villages ruined in war; for her charity; and for the building of houses of healing and of learning, she is long remembered. And with the Rangers of the North, the Queen’s Men still serve as wandering justices and peacekeepers, travelling even to the far regions where lords are little known._

_After the King reached the fulfilment of his years he surrendered his sword and his sceptre and his crown to their eldest son Eldarion, who ruled in the manner that his parents had taught him. For they had seen that he spent many years wandering the wild as a Ranger and a Queen’s Man, as they themselves had done before the kingdoms were reunited. Thus he learned first-hand the ways of common folk, and of the folk of all the lands he might one day rule._

_And such became the tradition of the house Elessar founded, the house Telcontar, that not only its heirs but all its children should wander houseless for a time, to learn humility and endurance, and remember the years when the North-Kingdom was broken and its people but humble wanderers who were scorned by the folk they strove to protect._

_But there was one child of Elessar and Arwen who never took such a path. For Auriel their eldest child, daughter of the morning of their love, was born in Rivendell, and was near a woman grown when the Ring was destroyed and her parents crowned. But she never dwelled in Minas Tirith. For she had been raised in an Elven house by her grandfather Elrond Peredhel, while her mother and father toiled on dark roads to protect the North, and she learned from him much that he knew of healing, and of the lore of ancient days._

_And great was her love for him, and for her mother’s people._

_To her last of all was given the choice of the Half-Elven, and though her father was of the kindred of the sun and of the morning renewed, she cleaved to the twilight and the stars, and the elder fading world._

_When Elrond sailed from Middle-Earth with the Ringbearers and the Lady Galadriel, great was the grief of Auriel. For a time she remained in Imladris with her uncles, and with the lord Celeborn her grandfather; but the power and the joy of that land was fading, and when her kinsmen rode to the Havens at last, she too departed. Bitter was her parting from her mother, and her father the King, whom she would not meet again until the worlds ended._

_So the daughter of the King came to the Undying Lands, last of all the noble kindred of the High-Elves born in Middle-Earth; there would be no other after her. And with her she brought a memory of the days of the glory of Men, when they ruled at last in the full flower of their wisdom and majesty, and all their kingdoms shone with summer gold._

_And in the Undying Lands she was reunited with her kin, and thus the grief of Elrond was solaced; but not forgotten._

_For the griefs and the partings of Elves and Men endure even to the sundering of the worlds._

-excerpt from _The Tale of Aragorn and Arwen_ as recorded in the _Thain’s Book_.


End file.
